October 2003

Everything turned into a whole lot of digging after her conversation with sheriff Graham. Emma had started in the Storybrooke library, looking up anything and everything she could on a Mr. Walter White. When that turned out to be a dud, she headed over to the town hall, deciding that any records worth reading would be there.

She wasn't surprised when there was, once more, no record of any Walter White. What she did find, however, was a death certificate – two of them, in fact. One for a Regina Mills, the mayor's wife, murdered and left in a ditch beside the road, and another dated to the same night. This one hit Emma a lot harder as she read the dates written for both birth and death. Snow Mills was barely a year old when she'd been killed alongside her mother in 1969. It had intrigued her, that was for sure.

It wasn't long before Emma figured she had a knack for finding people.

She'd been out of Storybrooke for over a month when she finally dug up the truth about Walter White, the first part being that Walter White didn't exist. Or at least, he didn't anymore. The only Walter White that Emma had been able to track down even remotely close to the East coast had died three years before she had even been born, making the likelihood that he had found her by the side of the road as an infant incredibly slim. There was a name she'd managed to dredge up, the name of a man who had been wanted in more than one state for fraud but never seemed to be caught. He was illusive, that was sure, there wasn't even a house under his name. But there was a name, and as Emma was beginning to learn, a name was a very powerful thing.

The name was John Winchester, and according to the files that lay spilled over her lap and the various spare seats in the bug.

There wasn't much on him, at least not after 1983 when a freak fire had destroyed his family home, killing his wife Mary in the process. After that he became something of a ghost, him and his two sons, but there were specks of him here and there, enough that Emma had picked up on it. The most recent one had been in Nebraska. As with most of her leads with this search it was a flimsy one, just a phone call to the right people and his name had cropped up alongside another. Harvelle's Roadhouse.

It hadn't taken much thought before Emma was back behind the wheel of her bug, leaving the motel room she'd been squatting in for those few hours and beginning her journey across the country to Nebraska.


Overall it took twenty-eight hours for Emma to make it to Nebraska alone, and then another two or more to locate the roadhouse.

She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting when she'd found the address, but somehow the small, run down looking saloon surrounded by sandy terrain hadn't been it.

Everything was empty, far more so than Emma had expected for any kind of business, but after a quick regard of the area, she decided the head inside.

The interior was no less impressive than the exterior. Everything was wood, the floors ceilings and walls and bar. Light fought to penetrate the dusty windows, leaving the saloon dimly lit and even more dank than Emma had thought before. It wasn't a bad thing, per se, in fact, the Road House seemed oddly homey despite the thick smell of spilt alcohol and the wooden bannisters snapped like braches of a tree a bear had fallen from.

Emma had barely been inside five minutes before she felt the cool press of a gun against the back of her head. It seemed the Harvelle's were about as welcoming to their guests as their Road house looked to the outside.

"Don't move," The voice said, clearly a woman and Emma felt her hands rising almost instinctively in defence. She didn't speak, just tried very hard to keep her breathing even. She didn't come all of this way to get shot in the head by a hostile bar owner. "Who are you? And what do you want?"

"My name's Emma," She said, keeping her voice even. The hand holding the gun was firm, unshaking and confident. That was not something to be laughed at as Emma too rightly knew. If someone was afraid to take a life, or of holing a gun it showed in their vey grip and the steadiness of their hand. Whoever this woman was, her hand was steady as a rock. "I'm looking for someone."

"I'm going to need a little more than that, Miss," The woman said and Emma fought not to jump at the sound of the gun being set, ready to fire with just a press of the trigger.

"His name's John. He knew my parents, or who I think are my parents." Emma said, but the voice on the other end remained silent. "I'm just looking for answers."

"Who are you parents?" The voice asked and Emma felt as her arms begin to ache slightly.

"David and Mary-Margret Nolan."

"Son of a bitch." The voice said and then the gun was gone. "You're Emma." Emma didn't hesitate in turning around, coming face to face with who she presumed was the owner of the Road House. "Hey, I'm Ellen." She said with a smile. She wasn't an old woman, perhaps late thirties – early forties at the most – with past shoulder length hair and dark eyes. She was regarding Emma with a strangely awed look.

"So, it's true?" Emma asked, her voice shaking slightly. If Ellen could put together The Nolan's names and come up with hers then a coincidence was no longer the word to cover whatever hunch was dwelling like a sleeping dragon in Emma's stomach. "David and Mary-Margret, they're –"

"I always wondered what became of you," Ellen said, her voice far softer and even brighter now that she'd assumed Emma wasn't a threat. "You've got your mother's chin," she said smiling at Emma like she'd just found some kind of unicorn.

"You knew them? My parents. What were they like?" Ellen was still smiling as she walked behind the bar, already picking out two granity whiskey glasses that looked a little worse for wear and placing them atop the bar.

"You're going to need to sit down for this," Ellen said, gesturing with the opened bottle of what Emma hoped was whiskey towards the bar stool. Seeing no reason not too, Emma took the seat and the glass offered by Ellen before she explained everything. And by everything, Emma truly meant everything.


Sure, she'd been telling herself that the woman in the road, the one from her dreams, had been a ghost - or an angel, at least - the story sheriff Graham had told her of the murdered wife on the road being the most plausible. But there was something about hearing someone say it aloud, of knowing such a thing was possible was absurd. Emma had nearly stormed out five minutes into the conversation. She hadn't though, not after she'd moved to make her leave and Ellen's hand had closed over hers. The sincerity in the simple gesture was enough for Emma to stay, for the conversation at least, and then she could leave and never think of such insanity again.

But the maternal concern in Ellen's voice had left Emma stumped for an escape. The woman cared, she understood exactly what was going through Emma's mind and she knew just what to say to combat it all. It was ludicrous, the idea of spirits and werewolves, vampires and demons alike running amok throughout the world. And yet, it seemed to make everything make sense.

"I know it's a lot," Ellen said, pouring Emma another glass. She had to been on her third, maybe even fourth, whiskey now, and the liquid burning down her throat was the only real thing keeping Emma grounded. It all felt like far too much. Ghosts were real and so was everything else Emma had ever been afraid of, all of them prowling the night like the monsters they were while humanity sat by, oblivious. But not all of humanity. There were people like Ellen – Like her parents – that looked out for the little guy, who stood up against the night and said, 'No, not today.'. Emma had thought up a thousand scenarios of who her parents were, of what they would be like. She'd thought of drug smugglers, criminals, perhaps even teenage runaways – but hunters? That was a whole new can of worms Emma was almost afraid to open. But not quite. "You take your time."

"How does it happen?" Emma asked, passing the glass between her hands, trying hard not to look at Ellen's kind face.

"How'd you become a hunter?" Ellen asked, sounding almost surprised by the question, but she didn't seem any less understanding. "Most people learn about the things that go bump in the night and then they search out places like this. A hunters stop." Emma couldn't help but smile at Ellen's pride, it seemed contagious. Emma was feeling pretty proud of herself – well, her parents at least. This lifestyle, as terrifying as it was, seemed like the answer Emma had been searching for, her identity almost. If this is where she came from, perhaps this was also the way she should be going. No more lost little girl. "Places like this house some of the best hunters in the business."

"Like John Winchester?" Whatever pride she'd felt fell away by the coldness that bestowed itself on Ellen's face as she began pouring herself another drink.

"Don't get me wrong, I loved John," Ellen said, tipping her glass towards Emma as thought to check she was listening before tossing the golden liquid back in one gulp. "He was like family to me once. But ain't no good ever come from trusting a Winchester." She said, slamming the glass back onto the bar. "You remember that, my girl, and you just might make it."

Despite her hopes, Ellen didn't lead Emma to John. Instead, after a brief introduction to Ellen's daughter, Jo, and the advice to always keep salt close by, Emma was sent on her way with a head full of overwhelming information and an address written in her pocket.


After five hours of driving and constant checking of her map, Emma had made her way to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. It was a beautiful place, Emma thought. It was dry despite the cold, something Emma had expected from the area, but she could still feel the shiver setting in her bones as she turned the heating up as high as it would go inside the bug. As it happened for the poor girl, tired from so long on the road, that wasn't very high, leaving Emma still shivering every once in a while despite her zipped up jacket and beanie sat snugly over her curls.

Following the address Ellen had given her, Emma found herself steering the bug down a narrow driveway, a few leafless trees either side of the track as she drove under the large sign made of scrap metal that read 'Singer Auto Salvage'. Other than the address, Emma had a name, something she was finding herself with a lot of recently. Bobby Singer, presumably the owner of the salvage yard.

The auto yard itself had to cover acres of land, almost every inch of it covered with scrapped and rusting cars piled one on top of the others quite precariously, yet the towers didn't waver. At the end of the dry dusted driveway Emma parked her bug in front of a large, painted blue house. It looked like the ideal family home with white shutter on the windows and even a porch large enough for a porch swing should the owner chose to attain one. The house, however, didn't look all that homey, at least, not as Emma had always imagined. The paint on the house was peeling, revealing the greying wood beneath. Weeds grew in the grass and twined up the sides of the porch, in front of which was parked a beaten up blue truck that looked as though to had seen better days. Whoever Bobby Singer was, he clearly had more important agendas that didn't involve gardening or house renovation.

Before Emma could even ascend the steps to the porch, she heard the sound of a rifle being cocked and footsteps behind her. If there was one thing Emma had learnt about hunters, it was that they weren't the most welcoming bunch.

"Who are you?" The voice said, clearly male, but with little bite to it, nothing like Ellen's had been on first encounter.

"Ellen sent me," Emma said, figuring that would be the better place to start than her identity. It worked as she heard the disengaging sound of the rifle behind her and the distinct sound of a shell hitting the floor. "I'm Emma," She said, turning around to face the man behind her, most of his face being hidden beneath the blue and white baseball cap on his head.

"Why'd Ellen send you?" He asked. It didn't escape Emma's noticed that the rifle was still very much in his grasp, but he didn't seem to be actively pointing it at her, which was a win.

"I want to be a hunter," Emma said, standing up a little taller. She probably didn't look the part, not even twenty years old yet standing in the middle of a stranger's scrap yard with a red leather jacket over her shirt and her boots laced a little too loosely. Definitely not hunter material, and gathering by the raised eyebrow Bobby was giving her, he agreed. "My parents, they were hunters before they died,"

"Parents?" Bobby asked, regarding Emma cautiously. It was easy to presume that hunting with a profession encased in constant paranoia. Even as she drove from Nebraska Emma found herself looking over her shoulder, checking for monsters lurking by the roadside. Shed thought it was illogical, but apparently not.

"Mary-Margret and David Nolan?"

"Emma?" It was getting strange to have so many strangers know her name, but Emma didn't feel the need to dwell on it right now. Chances were her parents were well known amongst the hunters, that or hunters were few and far between. Whatever the reason, it didn't quite add up to the amazement on Bobby Singers face. "Lord, I've not seen you since you were a baby." Emma wasn't sure how used she should be to people looking at her like that, with wide eyes and sad smiles.

From what she'd seen from pictures in the paper, a couple of photographs from Ellen and the coroner's report she'd managed to obtain from the Stroybrooke hospital, she didn't look a whole lot like her parents. She had aspects of them, of course, but nothing major. Like Ellen had said, she had her mother's chin, along with her pale green eyes, but aside from that she looked nothing like the kind faced woman with the dark pixie cut. And all she had from her father was the blondeness of his hair that fell into soft curls. It was no wonder people looked at her that way, only realising that she was the daughter of their lost friends after she'd mentioned it. Perhaps the resemblance became more refined when the truth came out. Emma supposed she'd never know.

"Come on in, girl. I'll get you a beer or something." Emma didn't object. From the last couple of months she'd had a drink sounded about right.

The interior to Bobby Singer's house was no more well-kept than the outside. The floorboards creaked under Emma's boots as she fought to not trip over the mountainous piles of books that seemed to lay littered across the entirety of the front and living room. The rooms seemed dark despite Bobby flicking on the lights as he passed them, grumbling over his shoulder things to Emma that she probably ought to be listening to.

"Is this?" Emma asked, stopping beside the mantle place, her fingers training towards a thin golden photo frame sitting contently in the dust as though it hadn't been moved in years. If Emma's assumptions for the photo were correct, she'd assume it hadn't.

"Yep. That's your mom alright." It was strange to see her like that, smiling beside Bobby on his sofa, dressed like any normal person would with her collared shirt and cardigan. Emma was so transfixed on the woman's soft, smiling face, that she almost didn't noticed the infant sat on Bobby's lap, wispy blonde hair covering her round head and large full of wonder. "And that's you,"

"You really knew them?" Emma asked, eyes not straying from the child so happy in the arms of her mother's friend, even as said friend passed her an uncapped beer. It was enough to know that Emma's parents were gone, it was something else entirely to think of the life they had left behind. Emma may have never known her parents, but they had ever known her either, neither had the friends who had clearly adored her so much as an infant.

"Everyone knew the Nolan's," Bobby said, as though it was obvious. Perhaps it was, Emma supposed she'd never know. "but you're not here to learn about your roots, are you?" he asked, but Emma sense he already knew the answer.

"How did you –"

"Ellen," Was all he said before taking a drag on his bear. Figures, Emma supposed, it was Ellen that had sent Emma to Bobby, it only made sense that she'd call ahead. What didn't make sense, however, was that Bobby still seemed so trigger happy when he was expecting company. "So, you think you've got what it takes to be a hunter, girl?" It didn't sound patronising, but Bobby's voice didn't sound overly enthusiastic.

"I know about this stuff now," Emma said, her finger nails scratching at the label on the beer bottle as she spoke. "I'm not the kind of girl to lie back and take things on the head. If someone is going to try and tell me who I am, I'm just going to punch back and prove them wrong." She said and caught a glimpse of a smile cross Bobby's features under his cap.

"Well, you'd best learn how to shoot then,"